Lower London
by RedSkyNight
Summary: Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does.
1. Enter: Player

_**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

_**Lower London **_

* * *

Harry hasn't become an Auror, like everyone expected, and he hasn't come to realize his future in much else, like Healing or as a professor at Hogwarts, as tabloids have suggested. He's very much stuck in limbo, but it's not quite the hell he'd imagined it to be.

His vault at Gringotts is filled to the brim with galleons, and while he doesn't want to surf on his fortune, now Lord Potter and Lord Black, he feels like his parents wouldn't mind a little down time after the events that are still plaguing his thoughts. Three years later, it is now called the War of London.

It's already being written in the history books, how noble young wizard Harry Potter led the forces of Light against the malevolent Deatheaters of the Dark Lord Voldemort in a fight prophesied years before. And how that young wizard gave his life for the Wizarding world, and came back to life against all odds to vanquish the evil forever. No mention of those who stayed dead and gone, and no mention of the incompetence that led them all to that point, to depending on a child to end a war that had been long in the making.

But, he's had to learn to let things go, and he knows that there are those who have noticed and are doing something about it. His friends, case in point, and himself when he finds himself wanting to set the Daily Prophet on fire, Rita Skeeter and all, but decides to do something more productive about it.

He's on to way to Gringotts on some insignificant business regarding allocation of funds to WWW, which despite all expectations, is still moving full speed ahead onto the world market as a definite competitor to all other prank, and surprisingly, potion companies. George, not quite over the death of Fred, has put his all into making their dream something greater, something that the whole world will recognize, and Harry can do no more than support him full-heartedly.

But, there is something different in the air as Harry strolls through Diagon Alley. And it's not the usual adoring stares, nor the fidgety glances. Not the equal parts of fear and worship that saturate the air. It's something different.

Harry realizes that when he walks into Fred.

Fred, his eyes normally cheerful or fierce, are now full of terror as he looks up at him with something akin to surprise. He looks whole and healthy, as he had been before his death. He looks alive, though that cannot be possible in any reality. He stares at Harry hard, stares at him like he's never looked before, but as he glances at his palm, he scurries away into a crowded side alley, disappearing completely even as no one moves, or even looks at him.

It's strange, and it shakes him deeply for as long as it takes for some people around him to notice something other than his scar. That he has a pained expression on his face as a roaring sound rushes through his head and pounds so much he thinks Voldemort has returned in that damnable persistent fashion of his. But it stops all of a sudden, and then he feels fine.

Harry smiles away some faint questions from the few that have broken free of his fame's almost herculean strength, and continues his walk to Gringotts, the thoughts of death that have so plagued him for months now taking up their usual spaces at the edge of his thoughts, waiting to be recognized.

His stomach grumbles, telling him he's physically hungry, but his mind can't take the thought of food and make it appetizing, so he waits until he makes it to his flat, not strangely devoid of Ginny, to prepare himself a salad before turning it into an early night.

He spends the entire time tracing out patterns in the ceiling, mapping out this little part of his universe, until the sun rises.

And even a little after that.


	2. Enter: Shop to Shopper

**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does.

Disclaimer: Almost forgot, but this applies to the last chapter, and any future chapters too. DO. NOT. OWN. HARRY POTTER. OR. TWEWY. OKAY?

A/N: Can I have rainbow, Joshua?

* * *

* * *

**_Lower London_**

* * *

* * *

Harry passes a pair of kids just a few years younger than him who whisper between themselves heatedly, as if debating to enter the shop. What seems to decide it for them is the small piece of parchment that's posted to the door with a thick, iron pin. Before Harry can get a closer look, a familiar voice calls out to him, and he abandons his curiosity for the moment.

"Hey, Harry, how's it going?" George greets him as he crosses the threshold, officially entering Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. There are people of all ages flittering around from one product to the next, and excitement is bubbling under the surface of the joke shop, just waiting to be released. It's strangely low-key, though, as if observed through cotton.

George nods at the store front, giving a small smile, "We had a visit from the Ministry a while ago, something about disturbing the peace. So I had to spell the place to mute everything." This explains why everyone's reactions were a bit lackluster, but looking George in the eye and seeing a little weariness that seems to be settling itself in for a long wait, he thinks that it isn't the only reason. But Harry doesn't give this thought away.

"Of course. This place is a guaranteed way to go mad. I can see why they'd censure you." He injects a chuckle into his voice, and George takes the cheer happily, letting a more relaxed smile cross this face while beckoning him to the room behind the counter. He waves away some employees, pointing to the customers before inclining his head at the back of the shop.

It's less colorful than anything outside it, but it feels homey enough. There's some stairs in the corner that presumably lead up to the living quarters, and there are sketches and schemes of all sorts scattered on any and all available surfaces.

"Sorry, I haven't cleaned up in a while. I just keep getting these ideas like crazy lately. And not all of them are for pranks." A frown briefly crosses the redhead's face, but another thought chases it away.

"And business has been booming more than usual around here." George shrugs, and walks forward to shift some parchments to the side table so that the couch is available. "I keep seeing the same faces, I think, and they keep buying similar things. But every time they come back, they spend more and more, so I can't really complain about. It just means a bit more time for the new guys to practice making them."

"The same things?" Harry asks, sitting himself down on one end of the couch. It's soft, and he can't help sinking into it carefully.

"Hah, don't worry about it. Everything in this room is safe," George smiles innocently, tidying up the room a bit more. "We thought it would be a good idea to at least have one safe zone in the shop so we could relax." It's a small waver in his voice, but Harry is glad he doesn't seem as affected as he used to be. Sometimes good memories should remain what they are. "So, as you can expect, the bedrooms are free game." They share a laugh, and Harry leans forward as George continues.

"And those weird customers...they all seem muggleborn." George looks faraway before snapping back to the present. "They seem a bit to new to it all. Of course there are wizards too, but by their ages, the muggleborns should be in school by now. It doesn't really make sense...Unless it was the wizards who brought them. Like a muggle friend, but..." George is soon lost in a trail of thought that Harry can't help but want to unravel. His curiosity was always a damnably persistent thing.

"Wizards? Do they come in groups or something?" Harry asks slowly, thinking back on the pair in the front of the store. George nods sharply, as if realizing something.

"Yeah, its always in pairs. One is a wizard, and the other is a muggle or something. How weird, I never noticed it before…" George shakes his head, looking confused, before shrugging it off. "As long as the Ministry doesn't come after them, it isn't a problem. Those people look like they desperately need a laugh." Harry bites his tongue, wanting to ask more, but it isn't business he came to talk about, so he drops it.

"So, how're Angelina and you doing?" George swings his head around to mock glare at him, a bit of pink gathering at the tips of his ears in true Weasley fashion.

"What's it to you, Mr. Potter? Are you making designs on my woman when my poor Ginevra slavers over you already?" Harry laughs as George puts on an overly dramatic, affronted expression, despite the small ache that arises, and smirks.

"There's never anything wrong with rescuing a woman from a right git, Git." They laugh deeply, and they spend a couple more hours entertaining each other with taunts and jokes, making their days just that much brighter.

But Harry can't stop thinking of seeing Fred near Gringotts, and wonders why he hasn't bothered to make a stop to visit George. That is, if that apparition was real.

And something tells him it was.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter is a blatant send-off for our hero into the unknown, which, when he meets a certain character (later) who is just so perfect for the role, will become practically said aloud. Cheers!


	3. Pause: Exit, And Away

_**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

_**Lower London**_

* * *

"We're not working anymore." Ginny starts, as she waits at the threshold of the flat. She doesn't look at all nervous, and is just like the woman he promised himself he would marry once the war let out, before it actually did. She's still as beautiful and fiery as ever. Something he hopes he held onto in another life.

"It's like you're not all there." Harry wants to agree, and wants to feel like his heart is breaking, but his heart doesn't seem like it's there to break. He can't seem to manage normal at all nowadays.

"You've got yourself set on some other thing. Another adventure, something...and I know I can't compete. I can't bring myself to follow." Her eyes are the warm brown that he always praised when she pointed out that his were the better pair of the two. He still thinks so.

"It's always a been a bit of a dream, to marry you. First, because of the stories...then because I got to know you. But I think…" She stops, and the first hint of something being different crosses his thoughts as her brown eyes lose a bit of that spirit that so defines her.

"I think I always knew that I wasn't enough. You've got this...aura about you. Something...you're always a bit more, bigger or greater than people expect when they get into situations with you." It's silent in a solemn way, like a dirge to what what was and what now isn't. But, it isn't bad, just something a little uncomfortable, and the moment soon passes.

Ginny and he don't say their sorry, and there are no tears to be found at the entrance. The break-up just happens, and then it is over. She's explained her case, revealed the ending of their story, and he has to admit it is what he would have written soon enough as well. And time rushes onward.

Harry welcomes her in with a familiar kiss on the cheek, and something about the whole affair is completely friendly and warm. They were friends of a sort before it all, though she wasn't as close as Ron or Hermione, it was enough to pull them through to the other side of the break-up. They spend a comfortable night just talking freely as they haven't in a long while, exchanging stories and anecdotes with a newfound ease.

And when she leaves, a lingering hug the last action of thee visit still imprinted in his memory, he looks out the window to a cold, twinkling night and remembers something she said as she left,

_"You've got your heart given to something else. And I know that whatever you've got yourself set on, it'll come to you, if you don't go to it first."_

He laughs a little, watches a little television, and then goes to bed with thoughts of golden, glowing snitches ruling over dull, thumping bludgers lulling him into a light sleep. Before he falls, however, he gives a response to the echo:

"I don't go looking for trouble. It usually finds me."

* * *

_A/N: Next part it really starts kicking it up a notch._


	4. Enter: Which Wand?

_**Summary:**__ Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

**_Lower London_**

* * *

His wand is no longer the wand that he bought from Ollivander that long decade ago.

It's warm and lovely and his, just as much as the wand that he fought and bled with those many years of his young life, but it isn't the same. His spells require less energy to perform, and the end result is always more than it should be: closer to how he wishes it to be than how the spell should traditionally act. It's acting like magic, like the ideas that muggles have about magic being able to do anything with willpower and strength of soul, and not like real magic which is more a science than an art.

He mentions this, casually, to Hermione who spares him a curious glance as she pours over some law books in preparation for another house elf case. "Are you sure...that it's your Holly and Phoenix wand?" He nods, and says of course, why wouldn't it be? She looks at him and realizes what she is implying with her question. What the only other thing she could be implying.

"It's just...Harry, are you sure that it was the_ Elder Wand_ you put away? Ancient Magic tends to be a very strange thing when it comes to _masters_ and the like." There's a sinking feeling in Harry's gut. The same one he felt when he realized that, _yes_, the Wizarding World was out to get him, and, _no_, he would never be normal, little Harry Potter for as long as he lived. Hermione continues delicately, her hand coming to rest on his arm to comfort him. "Inexplicably, _all_ three, over hundreds of years, came back to a descendant of a Peverell in the end. What's to say the Elder wand doesn't want to stick to you?" He nods at her, taking in the information with a thoughtful, calm expression that causes her to narrow her eyes, and tells her that he'll check with Ollivander as soon as possible.

"Don't worry about it. I'll get it checked out. Bye, 'Mione." His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dark blue robes after he closes her thick, wooden door with a snap, and he is determinedly keeping them from shaking. The wand in the holster up his sleeve is also ignored very deliberately, though it grows warm against him with faint melody that only he can hear playing in his mind, sounding vaguely like an apology. For what, he honestly does not want to know. "I'm very cross with you," Harry whispers vehemently, keeping that arm as carefully away from him as he can manage without looking suspicious. He nods to the guard at entrance to the Floo Hall Station, and steps through green flames without a thought.

But his boiling anger is soon interrupted and cast aside for the moment when his day gets even stranger.

Walking out of the Ministry, he notices Rufus Scrimegour running around in full robes and Auror gear in clear daylight on a muggle street connected to the alley, cars zooming by and through him as he runs across without any trouble. Harry takes a moment to think, staring at the improbability, and then pauses in his long strides to wave at the man who gapes at him before looking at his hand and running off.

He apparates when the old Minister is out of sight to his next location, walking to his door and barricading it with spells and mundane locks against any other intrusions until his hands stop shaking and his mouth stops cursing because he's run out of breath. He can't sit down in this state of mind, so he paces through every room and back until his heart rate is as close to normal as it's going to get.

He stops when he notices the clock on the wall nearing 11, and walks to his room where he lays down on his bed and tries to mute the thoughts running through his head.

Harry doesn't fall asleep until morning.

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ Arguing with your wand must be a very interesting experience, no? And the interesting part is coming up right...next. And it may not be what you think it is, whatever you are assuming._


	5. Enter: Dumbledore, Hello

_**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

_In Today's Story:_ Harry pays Dumbledore a visit.

* * *

_**Lower London**_

* * *

_…"this is indeed the wand that chose you, Mr. Potter'..._

Days after his trip to the ministry and Ollivander's, Dumbledore is dead, but looking at his face preserved by the strongest of burial spells, one wouldn't be able to tell with just a look.

Harry certainly can't, certain that the old wizard will sit up with one of his old, wise smiles:

_'Ah. You've come to see me again, Harry? Was the last time not enough? Can you not let an old man move on to his next adventure?'_

And Harry would shout, anger bubbling up from his days as a happy knight on that wonder-filled chessboard, so new and grand after his old life, of his-

_'Tell me. TELL ME! JUST... What is going on?…I want this to stop. Stop it!'_

And Dumbledore would reach out, grab his hand in his, and look at him honestly for once, honest for one damned time in all his life and say the words that would end it all. He'd say it in that slow, _iknowithappenedtometoosorry_, _idon'tknowsorry_ always regretful tone that he hadn't noticed before. That he hadn't noticed until he'd sat down and talked with the portrait on the wall, all _Albus Wulfric Brian Percival Dumbledore_, not _MugwumpHeadmasterGeniusHero_, and without the sense to hide it because portraits show the truth that life can twist and hide.

And then Albus would tell him that he didn't have a damned clue at all.

Because, when it comes down to it, Dumbledore is dead. Dead as his parents who died defending him and their beliefs, and the people who ran out of the castle that day at Hogwarts, with not a clue that they wouldn't be seeing tomorrow, because really, what child expects it. What adult wants to?

The edges of the Forbidden Forest are just as beautiful and terrifying as they had been a few years ago, running into them while having adventure after adventure.

The cover of Dumbledore's tomb has been thrown on the ground (a quick, _frighteningly_ perfect _Wingardium Leviosa_ to it did the job), with a little more decorum than the last time it happened, and the shrouds covering him moved aside to allow access to his upper body. Wrapped in his two long-fingered hands is a wand, without a doubt, is the Elder Wand that Voldemort went through so much effort to obtain.

The wand that took part in two wars without the world knowing about it all.

It trembles, almost too lightly to notice, in the presence of its master. It moves in cold, dead hands, shifting, sliding and shivering at the faintest presence of the one it has claimed. Wishing for his touch and his power.

Harry puts the tomb back as it was before his intrusion, sealed, perhaps, tighter than before, ignoring that fact as he walks back towards the nearest apparition point.

His night ends quietly and without a break from routine, as he lies in bed with his eyes tracing the constellations printed in his ceiling, looking for something he's not he wants to see. Because, as it stands, Pluto seems to be glowing a bit brighter, and he doesn't want to see a centaur right now to know what it means.

* * *

_Ollivander looks at him, a little colder but no less the mysterious, strange man who marked the beginning of his magical life in the Wizarding World._

_"All examinations indicate that this is indeed the wand that chose you, Mr. Potter." Harry doesn't let out the breath he had been prepared to release if the news had been different. "What I am curious about, however, is why you felt the need to check. Is there some reason you doubt its identity?" He nods, shortly, and explains that the results he has been getting with his wand aren't the results he should be getting, and Ollivander gives him a long look before taking a tone that is far more grounded in reality and bluntness than he thought him capable of._

_"Sometimes, Mr. Potter, one's magic can evolve. Your wand, destined for great things, may have taken this chance to change itself to make it more suitable to you in your current situation." There is a long pause before Ollivander, looking at him straight in the eyes with his moon-like pair, continues, "One does not come back to life unchanged, Mr. Potter. And it is said that the Phoenix, once killed in a certain manner, will never die of that method again. " Harry nods, taking in this as he took in Hermione's suspicions, before heading for the door as Ollivander lets loose some parting words that sound more like a prophesy than even Trelawney in her fits could manage._

_"And that is not to say what being a Master of Death does to one's magic, or life."_

* * *

A/N: This was actually one of the first scenes I envisioned (the _Harry Potter, Tomb Raider_ part), for some strange reason. I wanted Dumbledore to help him move on to the next step. Harry can't keep letting trouble walk to him, or heading to Dumbledore (dream/limbo version or not) anymore.

_And to reviewer Kyte: There is a reason for the games being late. Just like there is a reason they are terrified of it. Nice questions._


	6. Start: Grim Tidings

_**Summary:**Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

**_Lower London_**

* * *

"And what do you think I should do?"

"I don't know. You've got seniority. Can't you up and talk to the guy?" Harry is jostled by the other's elbows as the line shudders before chugging along merrily. "It's getting bo-ring. Again and again."

"_Hah_-as if. No one talks _to him_. He talks_ at you_."

Harry's on the Tube, one fine Monday morning, taking a line to visit Hermione who's waiting for him at Vertick Alley for a small get-together before Ron's birthday. They need to compare birthday presents and the like, and plan out the minutiae of the party plan without the man knowing. Not that's difficult, given his current preoccupation with his position in the Auror department, still a newbie and taking all the heat from his fellows and superiors. Sometimes days go by without either Hermione or Harry ever seeing even a red hair of him.

He's not sure what it is, but something has the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the sense of _something_ resonating through every fiber of his being. It's not crowded, and almost unusually empty. It feels like there's a _notice-me-not _charm floating about, but it is so faint that he can't help but second guess himself and leave it at that. Harry curls his hand so he's prepared to pull his wand from the holster hidden by his sleeve at a moment's notice.

The line moves along, sliding through tunnels at a decent pace, with the sound of wheels on the track the only thing that can be heard echoing from outside.

"Then, you reckon that Mr. Boss-man's gone a bit batty by now? Starting the game up so many times and repeating it, like there'll actually be a winner this time...There hasn't been a winner in, like, forever, man." The man seated next to him, with dark wings of all things that no one else seems to notice, continues speaking blithely, not a look at Harry, as if he doesn't exist. His companion nods, a boy of all things, who also has wings but doesn't carry himself at all like other children.

"There's a reason Double L's considered a sink zone. The only reason creativity is still around's 'cause we keep getting people coming in. The city still thinks it's a port, so it acts like one." They're both dressed in a fashion that he's seen plastered on the walls of department stores and on dummies in the windows that he passes on his walks through the fashionable part of London. To all appearances, considering their comfort in the clothing, they are muggles.

"We haven't had a winner in ages, and with that little war a while back, I'm thinking that he just wants to drive them mad or something. We've built up enough of a force of Grims already, and we're just pawning them off to others at this point. Wouldn't surprise me at all." Harry stands as a voice announces the next stop, bracing himself for the stop, determinedly not looking at the pair that knows more than they should. The two don't spare him a glance as he walks by them, and tries to not spare them more of a thought as he makes his way to the abandoned parking lot that leads to the entrance of Vertick Alley.

"I just wonder where the big guy is in all this. Is he just giving the boss-man free reign? Or is he even around anymore?"

Harry walks into a crowd, trying to lose himself in it, trying to convince his mind to drop the whole matter entirely, completely, wholly.

But he knows it's only a matter of time before he can stop fooling himself, and he decides to catch the trouble before it meanders past him and catches him in its magnetic hold.

* * *

_**A/N:** Finally, a title drop, though not direct. Second, yes, those guys are who you think they are. Third, Harry's going to crack next chapter. What happens then kinda hits it too close to home for him. _

_Later!_


	7. Pause: Stalker in the Dinner Aisle

**_Summary:_** _Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does.

* * *

_

* * *

**Lower London

* * *

**

* * *

He is in the grocery store when he finally admits to himself that there is a problem, in the middle of the frozen dinner aisle. The temperature does nothing to dampen the chills he feels at the revelation. And there has to be a problem, something fundamentally wrong when he sees what he does and can't help but feel he should have expected this.

He has to admit something is wrong when he sees a red haired woman with his eyes look fondly at him, wings protruding from her back like dark reflections of the angel wings he had imagined her adopting after her death in his youth. It is his mother, and from the corner of his eyes, he can't see her having aged a day since his latest photo of her was taken. This is something he can't ignore, especially as she begins to trail behind his forced, casual trek down the aisle to the cashiers. He even slows down a little, so that he has more time to spend with her.

He looks at her in metallic reflections, and in the shined floors as he makes his way to his end destination. Merlin, if she doesn't look the same as she did in the Mirror of Erised and in the forest.

Finally, about to leave the store with his purchases in hand, he spares her a glance at the automatic doors, and mouths the word 'mum' to himself, tasting the idea that has never been so within his reach before. He is left with the image of tearful, green eyes, before quickly finding a place to safely apparate away, as best as he can, with his entire body trembling with the weight of this current meeting.

* * *

"I saw my mum at the grocery store." He tells Hermione as she works on a draft for another bill she's planning to introduce to the Wizengamot. He's sure to vote for it, given his many seats and complete agreement with his friend's ideals, so she doesn't seem surprised when the conversation turns to strange topic unrelated to her current task. "She was right there, following me." And, Merlin, if he doesn't love this woman all the more when she doesn't tell him he's crazy or reason him out of what in all other cases, and with all other people, would be insanity.

"And did you talk to her?" She asks calmly, sparing him a short stare before a misspelling catches her perfectionist's eye. Her hands are steady as she dances her pen across the piece of parchment, occasionally pausing to scratch out some error.

"No. Not until I was about to leave...but not really. I just whispered it." Harry fidgets in his seat, looking to the comforting ceiling for some support. "She seemed to think I couldn't see her." Hermione turns in her seat, dropping her ballpoint pen onto a spare piece of table that isn't occupied, and looks right through him.

"So why could you?" Harry thinks he can see something beyond the constellations in the ceiling, something just out of his reach. He's been getting that feeling for a while now.

"I don't know."

And their conversation descends into normality.

_Sometimes, really, always_, his friends are his saving grace.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Breaking into tombs and now seeing his mom...Harry's got quite the life, eh? _

_Does anyone think they know what's going to happen? I'd like to hear your predictions._


	8. Start: Forward March, Deathly Marked

_**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

**Lower London**

* * *

_"Harry, let me tell you this: You don't need normal. You don't want normal. It may have been what you wanted once upon a time, but now…"_ It was surprising, both the speaker (in a funny sort of backwards way), and the conversation, but given how he was going about everything like a right coward, like someone who was utterly powerless, he should have expected a reprimand like that. Harry faced down a Dark Lord, survived years of hell on Earth to make it this far.

Just putting everything on hold and running away was something he could not abide. It was a shame to his mother, his family, and everyone who'd fought for and with him. It's silly thinking back on it now, but that slap to the face is something he's grateful for. And now, he needs to-

_Get out_. He's going to go on a trip to Diagon Alley, and maybe finding something for little Teddy before Andromeda manages to guilt trip a spontaneous visit to his godson. As if he doesn't visit practically every week already. He'd sort his thoughts out, make some real decisions, and decide where to move, or at least how to move, from there. For now, he thinks as he hops out of a Floo, all familiar nausea and and disorienting flashes of _other_ places going through his mind, he's going to take to his path calmly and steadily, hoping it treats him in kind.

_Hopefully_.

For _once_.

And he walks out of The Leaky Pub, nodding to Tom and acknowledging the various bowed, pointed hats and whispers of thanks. Harry tries not to grimace at it all when he turns his back to them, as he whips out his wand and proceeds to tap the stones to open the passage to the alley. Pausing, he takes a step back, entering the pub again, as someone walks through, unannounced.

He encounters Draco Malfoy on his entrance to the Leaky Cauldron from the alley, decked out in formal wear his late father must have passed down to him. Looking every inch the pureblood he so touted in his youth, Malfoy stares at him before nodding, and turns back into the entrance of Diagon Alley.

Harry soon follows.

* * *

The alley is no different than usual, busy and bursting with all the energy that the Wizarding World can carry, and it's just perfect for a walking conversation between two former enemies, hiding the pair behind its bright energy and endless enthusiasm.

Draco begins, cutting to the chase after grabbing his attention with a soft whack of his cane. "I have been trying to contact you, but whatever charms you have put up have harmed several of my owls in the course of delivery." There is an injured tone, even as cold and impersonal as he tries to make it, and Harry shrugs in apology.

"Sorry, but given everything, I'd rather not get any kind of mail anymore. Good or bad. And my owl's-"

"_Dead_, _yes_, I _know_. I think everyone does after that article Prophet wrote about the deaths. Interesting, how your owl made it to the list when I am sure many other deceased pets went unnoticed." Malfoy's eyes are trying very hard not glare at him, and Harry understands the feeling, experiencing it too, so he tries not to be offended at the callous mention of Hedwig's death. Though he is sincerely tempted to ask whether several white peacocks, in Malfoy's humble opinion, should have made the list.

"Yeah, the Prophet never can get its priorities straight." It's silent for a moment as each is in their own thoughts, until Harry bumps into a pair, one in robes and the other not, who look up at him with a fear he is not sure he deserves. Draco look at him curiously, looking down his nose at him (as well as he can given their similar height) for a reason he can only barely grasp now that he's really going to throw himself into the thick of it. Harry thinks of what he can do, and a curious thought occurs to him, coming to the fore without so many doubts and excuses blocking its path.

"There's a shop, _Weasley Wizarding Wheezes_, further down where you can buy what you need." He says lowly, smiling reassuringly at the two who seize up before leaping off to do what he suggested. There are no backwards glances as they heartily gallop to the designated location. Turning to Draco, he supplies one excuse of the many he imagines he'll need in the future,

"There were two kids under an invisibility cloak. I just pointed them in the direction of the store they were probably sneaking off to visit."

"Of course," Malfoy mutters, "spreading trouble-making wherever you go." They make it to Gringotts, and at the steps, the pureblood finally explains his intentions.

"We need to talk, privately, about some _items_ you undoubtedly have in you possession." Harry's mind runs circles, imagining different items and different outcomes, for once not having any instinct or hint as to what will happen. Everything seems to revolve around everything else. In his experience, everything is related. Hallows to horcrux, past to future, love to hate, death to life. It's just a matter of collecting the pieces and connecting the dots.

"Some things _deathly_ important," and some of the pieces fall into place, however small they are. Cowering for show at the glares that the goblins give him, and flinching at a particularly rough brush with the club of a guard, they are escorted at Malfoy's request for a safe room, warded against all sorts of spying and scrying spells. Complete and total privacy.

Harry doesn't try to deny he's excited.

* * *

_A/N: I'm not sure about you, but I felt Harry needed a bit of a kick. Normal, normal, normal. It's all about perspective, and in this story, his wish to be normal really annoyed me. Willing to lie down and let it get to him? That isn't the guy who took out a Dark Lord, who continued fighting even when the odds were against him. Yes, it's off-screen as of yet, but I liked what I did with the tomb-raider chapter with mixing the order of things up a bit so I'm doing it here. _

_And that character I mentioned in earlier notes, the one I said I found the perfect role for, anyone care to guess who it is? It's a Harry Potter character, by the way._


	9. Pause: Winged Visitor

**_Summary:_** _Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

**_Lower London_**

* * *

Fawkes visits Harry in the middle of the night, just as he's locking up his windows and doors, and preparing for a night in bed, watching the ceiling.

The phoenix trills at him, warm and welcoming, as Harry approaches to brush a hand down the side of his head.

"And what're you doing here Fawkes? I thought you went off to do what Phoenixes do when they're on vacation." Fawkes bats a wing at him, playful but reprimanding, and turns a beady, black eye at him in expectation. Fawkes eyes something directly behind him, but he pays it no mind.

"If this is about Dumbledore's tomb, I'm sorry, but I needed to know if the Master of Death thing was going to haunt me." Fawkes dismisses it with a quick song that doesn't strike fear in him, no matter how much he thinks he deserves it, and continues to stare at him, almost thoughtfully.

"I;m still not sure about if it isn't going to haunt me. But...I think _this _thing is beginning to cross over into different territory. Or maybe something a bit too familiar." Fawkes gives a half-nod, half-shake of the head that he hasn't thought possible until then, and he sighs in response. A couple of embers fall to the floor, burning out just before they meet the carpet, and the phoenix spreads his wings, shaking them absently before folding them again.

"Yeah, I know. That would be too easy." And he spends the night having an almost conversation with the phoenix who promptly disappears as sun the rises from the east bleeding warmth through the closed curtains and adding a glow, and shine to the entire apartment that only reflects what he's feeling.

"Thanks," he calls out to the empty apartment, not wry or the least bit dishonest. "That really cleared up a lot."

* * *

_A/N: _A vague end to the Tomb-raider chapter. It's timeless, so you can place it where you want.


	10. Start: Bad Faith and Trust

**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does.

**_A/N:_** _Thanks to all the reviewers. I love input, and if you have any theories about what's going on or what you think would be cool to include, I'd love to hear._

* * *

_** Lower London**_

* * *

There is a table in the middle of the room, and chairs that have been placed on either side of it. The room is plain and spartan in its appearance, but anyone of any magical sensitivity can sense that there are spells woven into every inch of it. It beats with a hidden rhythm, and the room is simply what it needs to be and no more.

"Sometimes goblin aesthetics leave a bit to be desired," Malfoy sniffs haughtily, "You look at the entrance and think everything is going to be gilded gold and bright and beautiful, but when you ask for something they don't intend to show off, something real, you can see what they truly desire. Everything else is just for show." Harry tries not to point out how philosophical that sounds, at the risk of sounding like an ass, and remains silent, waiting for the blond to start what he has been stalling for a while now.

"So, Potter." Malfoy seats himself primly at the edge of the table, obviously forgoing etiquette in the face of someone familiar, despite the circumstances of that familiarity. "I'll get straight to the point. You have the three _Deathly Hallows_."

Harry nods, for lack of anything else to answer or say. Malfoy examines his hands, picking at his fingernails almost absentmindedly, but something of the gesture hints of nervousness. They look manicured, and at the observation, Harry determinedly looks away from them. He doesn't want to laugh or start something he doesn't care to finish.

It is utterly silent, empty and when was Malfoy going to start on whatever he wanted to say-

"Do you know what that means, Potter? The power you have?" The room seems desolate and empty rather than protective now. The blond looks at him intently, almost pleadingly, and Harry finds himself feeling disturbed. "Do you know what you could do in this world, what your role entails?" Harry half nods and shrugs, his brow furrowing as Malfoy's hands clench and he comes to stand all of a sudden.

"What do you intend to do with it? Do you intend to do anything with it?" Like _Voldemort_, Harry wants to ask, like _Dumbledore_?

"There has to be something. This, all of it, what is it you intend to utilize it for?"

The questions don't seem like they are going to stop, and he doesn't feel comfortable with the way this conversation is going, the words ringing in his head, so he cuts in,

"What of it? What does it matter to you?" Malfoy rears back slightly, almost unnoticeably, before regaining his composure with a stubborn grimace. His lips purse as he stares at him, grey eyes stabbing him with something Harry can't quite comprehend, until it hits him just what the reason behind this could be. There's a tense air about them, and his magic is sparking within him as a memory of silver rises to the forefront of his mind. He doesn't want anything to do with it, and he certainly doesn't hate Malfoy enough to have what happened before happen to him.

"Is it the life debt?" Harry leans forward, planting his palms on the table, eyes narrowing, "is this all, " he pauses to gesture at the safe-room, "about that thing?" Malfoy frowns severely, eyes blazing and responds furiously, exploding,

"It may be some small trifle to you, Potter, but according to Wizarding tradition," at Harry's attempt to interrupt (the word_ pureblood_ on his tongue, heavy and burning), he cuts in to finish his thought before Harry can even finish the first syllable, "A life debt is to be honored and respected! Do you think I feel any better, being indebted to you? My magic is tying me to this entire thing. I have no say whatsoever! I feel like little more than a house elf!" Harry feels a bit empty, and a bit resentful. He doesn't want this as much as Malfoy doesn't want it, and he's stuck not knowing how to deal with it.

"How do you get rid of it?" All he knows of it is from Pettigrew and Dumbledore, which aren't really detailed sources , so he's willing to ask Malfoy to help him get rid of that. Malfoy looks abashed, and a little frightened.

"Wha-What do you mean?" He stutters out after a moment of tense silence, he looks almost confused, "Get rid of a life debt? It's like an unbreakable bond! Unless the contract is completed-"

"So you need to save my life?" Malfoy seems ready to go off on some sort of shocked tangent ,and Harry really wants to get this over and done with. "What were you planning to do before this?" The blond falls quiet, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, and the only other sign of life in a room so empty. They have no choice but to stare at each other.

Harry doesn't know if he'll like the answer, but given everything that's led up to this, he damn well won't stop to get it. "Malfoy-what were you planning on doing?" When the other's hand twitches in the direction of his upper arm, without a thought and certainly not on purpose, Harry has had enough of this pretense and posturing.

"You wanted to-what?" Harry stares at him, shocked and not a little bit disgusted, "Did you think I was about to become the next Voldemort or something?" Malfoy flushes but utters a brittle denial,

"Of-of course not! It was…" Harry stands up, the energy within him bunching and he's half-willing to bet that if he doesn't do something to resolve the situation, it will resolve itself for him. And he really doesn't want to deal with a brain-dead Malfoy wandering out of the room, mind-wiped of the entire encounter and expression not so frightened or angry. He wouldn't do it, but he's sure his magic would.

"I'm not like that Malfoy," he lets out a harsh laugh, half disbelief and half frustrated, "You'd think you'd've, people would've learned when I wasn't the Heir of Slytherin in school, or the next up-and-coming Dark Lord after last year's debacle. But no, people seem to think I'm either some god or the next villain in this little fairytale." He doesn't want to spout out his grievances or lay so much of himself in front of his old rival, but he doesn't know what to do, and this situation isn't helping any of his latent confusion or worry about what is to come. "What happened to me being _Little_ _Ickle-Pothead_?" Harry shot out hotly, "When did I become _this_?"

A palm slaps on the table, and Harry looks up to see Malfoy staring at him with an intensity that tells him it would be best to shut up. "You're right, Potter." Malfoy says softly, carefully. "You're just the same hothead Gryffindor I went to school with, but things are different." Noticing that he has his attention, Malfoy nods, his hand trembling minutely, and sits down heavily into the seat he had before left empty. "You are the head of my mother's side of the family, you've saved us all from a _Dark Lord_," Harry is tempted to say his name, but Malfoy shoots him a shaken look before continuing, "And you saved the Malfoys. We can't forget that. And...I don't know how else I can help you. You don't need power, not with the Hallows-" And Harry is suddenly reminded that the man in front of him could very well solve the riddle of the Hallows.

"How did you know I had them?" The blond looks at him, unresponsive for a long period of silence before uttering a short reply.

* * *

A/N: I have a poll up on my profile about what character should show up next because this story could really go so many ways with so many venues to explore, and people to see. I'd like to hear about who you'd like to see.


	11. Pause: Tender Triumvirate

_**Summary:**__ Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

**_Lower London_**

* * *

"I think I know what's happening. Or at least a little more about it." Harry's sitting across from Hermione and Ron who are just beginning to dig into the meals they've ordered. They're meeting at a little café that's close enough to the Ministry to be worth the walk, but far enough to be ensconced firmly in Muggle London. It's convenient for both Harry, who lives in Muggle London, and the couple who both work at the ministry at odd hours.

He has a steaming cup of tea sitting in front of him that remains to be touched.

"And it's...a bit _different_." They both finishing chewing their bite of food, Hermione her sensible salad and Ron his grand sandwich, and look at him.

"From _Hallows_, a mad _Dark Lord_, professors trying to _kill you_ every year and dear Ms. _Hem-hem_ Umbridge-what are you facing now? Marriage proposals now that you're free?" Ron snorts, ignoring a slightly reprimanding pinch from Hermione who subtly points at a napkin before giving her own reply to his answer.

"Do you need us?" He can't speak for a moment, choked up by a little swell of emotion. Harry is struck again by how the duo look at him, their lives further ahead of his developing and blooming into something their youth only hinted at, yet their arms are outstretched for his little self, lagging behind them. They are ready and willing to completely dedicate themselves to any cause he finds himself fighting for, Hallows, Horcruxes, Life, Death... but he swallows down whatever fears are plaguing him and smiles.

"It's all about me, I think. I don't think you guys can follow me now." Ron grins wryly at him, a smear of ketchup on his cheek. "Isn't that always how it is? And we jump right in after you anyway."

Hermione nods, coughing while daintily wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. She folds it perfectly, and places it in her lap."We're here when you need us, Harry. No _ifs_, _ands_ or _buts_ about it. We'll be here."

"Alright," He assents, not fighting it as he has so many times before.

Harry's learned by now that they're both just as stubborn as he is. That's part of why he loves them so much.

They spend the rest of the afternoon joking around, calmly and silently asserting that they will not ever leave him alone.

_Even if he leaves them first._

* * *

_**A/N:** Can you tell that I just love warm-fuzzies? And an unfractured Golden Trio?_


	12. Start: Historically Yours

**Summary: **_Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

_A/N: My favorite scene still hasn't popped up here yet, but it will soon. Real soon. I just keep trying to fit in more of the story before it and the interesting character pop up because then the story turns in a different sort of direction than how it's been so far. Anyway, just so you understand, Malfoy Convo is going to be cut up and may never really see an ending. The information it holds, however, is vital._

* * *

**_Lower London_**

* * *

"How did you know I had them?" The blond looks at him, unresponsive for a long period of silence before uttering a short reply. "Mother and Father were there when he…'_killed_' you. They managed to gather information afterward, and shared their findings with me in case I needed it." Malfoy is subdued again, but in a more solemn rather than a submissive way. Harry finds that answer acceptable. Voldemort, towards his last hours, wasn't so much concerned with secrecy when he seemed to have the entire world falling into his grasp. The Hallows had a history of tending to do that...

"They aren't only a children's story, right?" Malfoy's eyes meet his, swirling with a question before he nods curtly and turns his gaze elsewhere.

"They are a story based on the legends passed down through generations of every British Pureblood family. The Malfoy's migrated here from France long enough ago to be let in on it, and from my mother's side," His eyes flickered towards him again, "The Blacks have long-held the story as well." He coughed, and leaned forward on the table after a brief pause,

"Are you sure you know nothing about the Hallows?" There was no sign of the fain fear or frustration from before on that pale, pointed face. The blond was back to being stately Lord Malfoy. Harry shook his head and replied,

"All I know is what was in Beadle the Bard's book. The one who can gather the three _Hallows_-"

"Becomes the Master of Death," Malfoy finishes for him. Harry cocks an eyebrow,

"And what exactly does that mean? The invisibility cloak, the stone and-"

"Do you have the wand, Potter?" Malfoy seemed to want to lead the conversation into another direction , but Harry was having none of that.

"I want to know what it-"

"Do you have the Deathstick, Potter?" Harry, taken aback by the sharp question, shakes his head.

"I don't." Malfoy looks at him searchingly, before nodding. He's never looked so controlled before. Harry can feel something important is about to happen. Maybe what Luna was talking about...

"Then I guess it's my duty to tell you," He sniffs, and Harry almost smiles.

"So that you can repay me, for all those other things I did for you. You obviously aren't saving my life so..." Malfoy doesn't respond, but some pink tinges his cheeks and a familiar spark appears in his eyes. "You wish Potter," He sneers mildly,

"I'm just fulfilling my duties as a Lord. From one to another. Not just placing my vote in the Wizengamot whenever it suits my random_ fancy_ or when _my friend_ puts a motion on the floor. I have to find another way to repay the debt." Now it is Harry's turn to flush, but he turns his head so that his hair shades his face from view, "Just get on with it, Malfoy." The wizard sniffs, and gazes into the distance, an invisible cloak of ceremony drapes around him, and in return, starts to creep over him as well.

Something is unraveling.

"In the time of the one called Merlin, several centuries before the Founders were born and claimed his great legacy as their own, there was a tournament called forth by the gods to launch forward the bravest and strongest in pursuit of a divine, forgiving goal….to return to life after sudden death. To resurrect, if you will..."

And Harry cannot find it in himself to interrupt.

* * *

_**A/N:** Who should pop up next? I'm thinking Neville._


	13. Pause: From Boy to Lion

_**Summary:** Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

_**Lower London**_

* * *

"It's been a while," Neville says, smiling warmly as throws off a glove, and crosses the humid grounds of the Longbottom Greenhouse to greet Harry at the door. The atmosphere is active, as plants dance with an awareness that Harry, after all his 6 years of Herbology, still hasn't gotten used to. He still feels like he needed a_ bluebell_ flame handy just in case. "Don't just stand around, Harry. The ones that bite are further back." And that of course, given his experiences, sounds completely reassuring.

But he trusts Neville, and that is that.

"Thanks," Harry says wryly as Neville winks teasingly at him before ushering him down a wizened path into a maze.

"So what has brought you here, Harry? I saw you at Ron's party a bit ago. Miss me that much?" Neville's grown so much, become such a new person that it still surprises Harry, these moments, when the boy who killed Nagini and dared to lead a resistance in the bowels of an enemy-taken Hogwarts reminds everyone that he's still around.

It makes him feel strange, thinking about telling Neville that he was ten of Malfoy, and now seeing it reality again and again. Harry wonders if this feeling is nostalgia...or a bit of envy. Harry still needs to decide where he'll be going, seeing Neville here now, he realizes this. Stability and normality are never going to come easily to him as to the other man.

"Just thought I'd drop by and say hello." Harry brushes his fringe self-consciously (the habit never really left him), and knocks shoulders with his friend. "And see what you were up to here. All master of your garden, and all." Neville shakes his head, knocking him back and points to a bench next to a wall of greenery.

"Nothing." But an unfamiliar smirk flitters across his face in a flash, "But I've come up with something new you might be interested in." His friend leads the way, and Harry feels faintly excited. Something's going to happen and everything's going to start.

* * *

_"Harry, let me tell you this: You don't need normal. You don't want normal. It may have been what you wanted once upon a time, but now…"_

It's not actually the plant that's the grand, life-changing event he'd been waiting for. And truly, he'd been a little surprised given how so much of his life has relied on trinkets and ingredients like it was one big potion of luck, tragedy and constant surprise.

It's a solid punch to the face.

And later, when the pain dulls and his ears stop ringing, after he returns and makes his proper apologies, and everything is finally sorted in that thick, thick head of his, he's grateful.

He's grateful and can finally _think_.

* * *

A small Whopping Willow waves its young branches about, playing with the birds that have come to nest on it.

"You're_ 'Just Harry'_. But you need to understand that this '_Just Harry_' isn't some guy you can find on the street. You _died_ for us. You fought with us. And, despite all your complaining, you just keep doing it._ Why?_ Because you're _you_, and you just happens to be..."

"_Nev-_" The man nearly growls at him, all bunched up frustration and maybe a little more than simple confusion. Harry gives up at that and stands straight from where he's been leaning on the hedges to support himself.

"You told me once that I was ten of Malfoy. Well, I've got to tell you that you're a hundred of anyone. And that's '_Just Harry_'. You can try to deny it all you want, play at being someone you're not, but it won't work. You've got to be who you are."

"I think you need to stop thinking about yourself like that. Like you're just some run-of-the-mill person on the street who doesn't have a clue, or who hasn't done what you've done all this time." Lord Longbottom looks at him, all Gryffindor and mighty and, above all,_ his friend_. "Whatever is going on, we'll all help. Always, _all of us_. But I think whatever is happening, whatever's got your thoughts in a tangle, _you_ need to sort it out. And to do that, you need to be you. '_Just Harry_'. "

"Got it." Harry mumbles, a little taken a back, and maybe a little bit teary from bits and pieces of the here and now weaving themselves into the moment. "Got it. But _you jerk_, since when did you start throwing out punches so hard? One'd think you should have tried for Beater or something."

And little Neville of losing-Trevor fame appears, never having really gone, flushing and rushing forward to help stop the little blood that's dripping out of his nose, and Harry can't help but laugh himself to the ground with his good old Neville lending a firm hand to lever him up, and start laughing right alongside him. All tension dispelled, they're two Hogwarts kids lolling on the lawn, laughing. After it all, in all this. And...

It feels good. Really good.

"Now get up and visit Luna, you lump." Neville says as their wild laughter starts to calm, "She says it's been ages since she's last seen you, and I know you've been around the block and have gone and seen the other DA members lately."

"Can't escape," Harry jokes, rolling his eyes and taking a fresh breath. "And I miss the girl. Haven't seen her in ages."

"Then what are you waiting for," His friend snorts, "Off with you and your self-esteem issues. I've important lordly things to do." And now it's Harry's turn to flush as his neglected responsibilities are brought to the forefront.

Neville, sensing this, smiles and shakes his head. "Get your head together before you even think about trying you hand at politics. Wouldn't want you to accidentally sign a foreign marriage certificate—"

"Git." Harry laughs and wants to keep on laughing, but holds it in for just a little. "I'll pop in on Oliver and tell him about this and see how you like being hounded." He apparates to avoid a friendly slap to the head and finally feels like things are brightening up.

He wonders what Luna is doing and goes on with his day.

He'll have to go and visit soon.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ _The reason his but got kicked into gear before the Malfoy meeting. _

_Sorry it took so long, friends. But I think I've got my mojo back. _


	14. Start: Resolved with a Resolution

_**Summary:**__ Three years later, and everyone has found their ending. Except Harry. And he soon realizes that his life has another twist to introduce. Or rather, his death does._

* * *

**Lower London**

* * *

"You okay, Harry?" Ron sits across from him, enjoying a dinner he prepared for him with Hermione off to an international conference in India of all places, and Ron unable to cook without imitating Neville in Potions Class before his Herbology Mastery classes.

"'m fine." Harry responds with his mouth half-full of food, and not at all bashful. He swallows quickly. "Just a few things going on that I need to figure out." His fork scrapes across the plate when it misses a pea he intends to spear.

"Have you put more thought to being an Auror with me?" Ron was one of the most disappointed at his choice to abstain from entering the workforce straightaway, but their bond hasn't lessened in the slightest. He was also the most supportive to finding something that made him happy.

"Nah," At the slightly disappointed look, Harry continues, "but I hear you don't need my help out there, Mister Weasley, or is that Mister Spellslinger now?" Ron pinks around the ears at the monikers, but smiles proudly if not a bit shyly. There's no sign of overt pride, but a sense of duty communicated in his gaze.

"I just did what I had to do. My partner was going to be pinned down with an Avada from one of those bastards, and I wasn't going to let that happen. Not again."

There's a look shared between them, and Harry is again reminded that the reason he's never left alone for more than a few days is because of the fear that he'll fall out of sight again. He doesn't try to remind them that the first time he willfully accepted an Avada Kedavra to the chest for the sake of those he cares about would be the last, because given his luck, which seems to be returning from its vacation, that's as certain as his not stumbling upon some trouble that comes seeking him out. Which is certainly not certain.

"So," Ron continues, "What's up now? Some ancient secret needs decoding? Merlin's soggy underpants need some restoring to their rightful place in some ancient chamber?" Harry tries to withold a jolt of laughter, but fails, and laughs out loud, loudly, as he delivers his answer,

"Just life. I'm trying to figure something out about life."

He thinks about Dumbledore, on to his next adventure as his body lays in a tomb that's been broken into twice. He thinks about Fred, his mother, and all the other dead he sees walking about as if they were alive. He thinks about the Elder Wand and its string of murders and deceit. And, finally, he thinks of fate and where it has led him so far. Where it is leading him to.

And isn't that a laughing matter.

"So I'm going to head out and visit Luna."

* * *

A/N: So, geez, the guy is finally going to visit Luna. And some things shall be hinted in further in an obtuse manner. A la Luna.

Explanations: Basically I don't have a DS anymore, and College was very crushing, so this was put way far back on the backburner. I still have notes about where to go from here, and I guess I'll depend on the internet and Youtube for help. I'm also contemplating restructuring this so it isn't has go with flow, go-back-and-forthy. What do you think?


End file.
